


the broken boys collective

by milominderbinder



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Depressed Ian, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 15:28:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1433527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milominderbinder/pseuds/milominderbinder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wonders, then, for a moment, if Ian’s saying Mickey should leave because he thinks it would be best for Mickey.  Or if he’s saying it because he thinks Mickey will, eventually, anyway.  If he thinks breaking things off now will be easier, because it’s bound to happen.  And that just – that just breaks Mickey’s fucking <i>heart.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	the broken boys collective

**Author's Note:**

> _anonymous asked:_ Mickey reassures Ian when Ian tells him it's okay if he wants to break up w/ him because he's sick
> 
> so this was supposed to be for the 5 sentence fic meme and i actually wrote a version of it for that on tumblr but then i kept having emotions and i decided to expand it. these poor boys are literally killing me hELP
> 
> send me more prompts: [mickeymilk](http://mickeymilk.tumblr.com)!

Ian’s been in bed for two days.

Mickey hasn’t left the house in that time.  Has spent most of it hovering in the bedroom doorway, watching Ian carefully, his stomach churning.  For the most part, he doesn’t try to talk to Ian, doesn’t try to make him get up; he just watches, tries to wrap his head around this whole thing, makes sure Ian’s okay, that he’s still breathing.  Sometimes, he goes and sits on the floor by the edge of the bed, watches Ian’s chest rise and fall.  Ian won’t come out from under the blankets, but at least if Mickey can see his breathing –

Well.  It’s something, at least.

Still, sometimes Mickey has to intervene.  He’s worried, so fucking worried, that Ian’ll fucking starve to death before he has a chance to get better, or some other dumb shit like that.  So when it’s late on the second day, he fills up a glass of water, crumbles up a vitamin tablet into it, so at least Ian will get _some_ kind of nutrient.  Then he heads back into the bedroom.

Ian’s laying on the far side of the bed, nothing more than a lump under the grubby white blanket.  Mickey stares at him for a long moment, blinks back the stinging in his eyes, before he speaks.

“Hey, man, you need to drink something,” Mickey says, carefully, testing how Ian’s gonna react; as far as he’s been able to tell so far, Ian in a depression can range from silent to sleeping to impossibly angry, all from the comfort of the bed.  “If you don’t wanna eat that’s fine, but at least have some fucking water.”

Mickey waits a long moment for Ian to react before he sits down on the edge of the bed, next to Ian’s curled up form.  He can see Ian shaking under the blankets.

“You should leave,” Ian says.  His voice is so small Mickey can barely hear it, cracking from disuse, but it’s the longest thing he’s said to Mickey in two days, so Mickey doesn’t even care that it’s not exactly positive.

“Fine, you take a sip of water and I’ll leave, how about that?”

“That’s not what I mean,” comes Ian’s voice, small and broken.  “Me.  You should leave _me._ Find someone – someone else.  Someone better.”

Mickey feels a strange churning in the pit of his stomach, a pulsing in his head.  He sets the water down on the bedside table.

“The fuck you talking about?” he asks, shifting a little on the bed so he’s totally facing Ian, even if Ian can’t see him.

“It’s okay,” Ian says, no more than a whisper but still crashing through Mickey’s skull and bouncing around like it’s the loudest thing Mickey’s ever heard, the _worst_ thing Mickey’s ever heard, the fucking biggest monster that he’s ever stared down.  “I don’t mind.  You – you should be with – with someone who can get out of _fucking_ bed whenever they want.  Not someone – not someone like me.  I’m sick.  It’s – it’s _okay_ – I…  I wouldn’t wanna be stuck with me either.”

The Ian-lump under the blanket shifts.  Mickey pictures him rubbing at his face, balling his fists against his eyes, biting his thumb as he shakes.  Nothing feels alright.  Mickey wonders when it's gonna be their time to catch a  _fucking_ break.

“Hey, man, you know you’re gonna get better.”

“No, I’m not,” Ian says, and his small voice sounds choked now, Mickey wonders if he’s crying, which makes _Mickey_ want to cry, and fuck.  Fuck this fucking kid who Mickey loves so _fucking_ much.  “Maybe in a few days I’ll get up and then I’ll be happy for a while, but then it’ll be back to this, again.  Over and over.  I’m always gonna be crazy.”

“So we’ll get you on some meds then, Ian, they’ll make you better.  You’ll be okay, man.”

“Yeah,” says Ian, but his voice is still too small, too broken, Mickey can tell he’s not convinced.  He probably knows better than Mickey does, too, has seen his mom go through this shit, has seen her on and off her meds, knows whether they work, knows his own chances.  Ian, Mickey realises, has seen his mom leave and be left, over and over again, nothing in her life ever permanent.

He wonders, then, for a moment, if Ian’s saying Mickey should leave because he thinks it would be _best_ for Mickey.  Or if he’s saying it because he thinks Mickey will, eventually, anyway.  If he thinks breaking things off now will be easier, because it’s bound to happen.  And that just – that just breaks Mickey’s _fucking_ heart, he wants to punch something and hug something at the same time.

"Look, man, after everything we’ve been through -" Mickey starts, has to pause for a moment and take a deep breath, rest his hand on Ian’s side just to feel the rythym of his breathing and calm himself with it, "After everything we’ve  _fucking_ been through, I’m  _in_ this, okay.  I’m not going anywhere - I couldn’t go anywhere if I fucking wanted to, okay, that’s how deep I’m in, and I  _don’t_ want to.”

There’s a long pause; Mickey wishes he could see Ian’s face, knew anything more than the fact that Ian’s breath is hitching, and he sounds like he might cry.  
  
"I’m fucking  _broken,”_ comes a quiet slow voice from under the sheets, just to break Mickey’s fucking heart.

"What, and I’m so fucking functional?" Mickey asks, leaning down closer, rubbing his hand across Ian’s back.  "You’re still  _you,_ Ian _.”_

For one too-long moment, there’s no response, and Mickey just counts Ian’s breaths and rubs his back and tries to hold back his fucking tears.  Then, slowly, too slowly to be magic though it still fucking feels like it, Ian rolls over, pulls the sheets down from his face, looks at Mickey.  His eyes are sunken and his face is sickly-pale, streaked with tears, his hair greasy and flopping over his forehead, and Mickey’s never been so  _fucking_ glad to see him.

"Okay," says Ian, just that, and it’s quiet and things still aren’t  _okay,_ but Mickey lies down next to Ian, wraps his arms around him, and thinks maybe they will be.


End file.
